There are too many hours before dusk,
where one can become mislaid along
the hidden curves of the throat:
a burst
of laughter,
of white space,
of delicate, corporeal vocals;
a counting of the harvest in cultural
rearing. The voice is a lover: a span of
the sensual sun, a nervousness that lies
low in the season, waiting or begging
for release. And the flutter of chest
becomes wet--a way to taste the tongue,
or perhaps, a lead…
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